


That Faint, Stinging Bell

by perilit



Series: Brimming May [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:53:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26482207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perilit/pseuds/perilit
Summary: A patchwork of moments in the aftermath of the deaths of Eliza and Isaac.-- "How’d you do it, you and Dutch?” he asks softly, still staring at the crosses. Hosea feels a bitter smile stretch across his face. “We didn’t. Not really.  I spent the better part of that year at the bottom of a bottle, and Dutch, he...well, you remember. Reckon you’re handling it better than either one of us ever did.” Hosea says wryly. His smile drops. “It dulls, after a while. You learn how to live again, I s’pose.” --
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Eliza/Arthur Morgan, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan, Hosea Matthews & Dutch van der Linde, John Marston & Arthur Morgan
Series: Brimming May [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982324
Comments: 4
Kudos: 53





	1. Forsaken,

**Author's Note:**

> Very, very brief mention of self-harm in passing in this chapter, toward the end.
> 
> I brought a notepad to work with me so I didn't have to use the backs of receipts this time. Writing, at its finest.
> 
> **Updated 10/25/20 to fix formatting, brevity, and grammar errors.

_I thought I heard a whisper reaching from the past,_

_An echo, a reminder that nothing ever lasts._

  
  


Arthur hasn’t even been gone four hours when Hosea catches sight of his worn gambler’s hat through the trees. “Forget something?” he yells good-naturedly, frowning when Arthur doesn’t so much as glance his way.

The young man pulls up to hitch the buckskin Dutch Warmblood, Cadell, they’d picked up a few months back. Arthur is slumped in the saddle, hat pulled low over his face. Hosea moves toward the boy, but he’s stopped by a hand on his wrist.

Dutch is watching the younger man carefully. “Leave him, Hosea,” he murmurs. “Might’ve had a fight with the girl. You know how that temper of his is.”

Hosea huffs, but acquiesces, settling back in his chair despite the worry in his gut. 

Dusk falls and night is well on its way before Hosea finally chances a trip to Arthur’s tent. He knocks on the pole, and when no answering grunt arrives, brushes aside the canvas, and...stops. Arthur is crumpled on the ground in front of his cot. His eyes are closed, and Hosea spots drying tear-tracks on his cheeks in the dim light. The smell of cheap whiskey is thick in the stale air. His gun belt and hat are on the ground. One hand is gripping a half-full bottle, and the other is curled around his gun.

The gun, Hosea realizes with a start, is aimed at his chin.

“Arthur?” Hosea breathes, not daring to spook the man for fear of the weapon firing.

Arthur’s face crumples at his voice, and Hosea moves forward smoothly, prying the weapon from the man’s shaky grip and kneeling on the ground in front of him.

"Leave m'lone, 'sea," Arthur mumbles, pressing his hands to his face.

"You been drinkin'? What happened, son?"

Arthur doesn’t respond for a long minute and Hosea is about to ask again when he grits out, voice muffled by his palms, “They’re dead.”

“Who?” Hosea asks gently.

Arthur shudders, his breath catching on a sob. “‘Liza." His voice is almost inaudible as he whispers. "...Isaac.”

Hosea’s heart stutters in his chest at the words, and he pulls Arthur closer. The man clings to him almost desperately, pressing his cheek against the collar of Hosea’s shirt. He heaves again, and this time, the sob in his chest breaks free, tearing at Hosea’s heart. “Oh, _Arthur_ ,” Hosea breathes. “I’m so sorry.”

Arthur shakes apart silently for a long minute, another strangled noise escaping into Hosea’s collar. He’s glad for the closeness when Arthur starts to whisper, his voice choked and tight.

“Rode up to the house an’ no one was there. Went around back an’...” Hosea starts to rub his back in long, sweeping strokes. “Was just the two graves. Neighbor said they was robbed. Ten fuckin’ dollars, Hosea, I -” His voice breaks, and his next words are watery. “I should’ve been there.” Arthur shakes apart in Hosea’s grip. His next words make Hosea want to hold on impossibly tighter. “W-wish it were m-me, in th-that ground.”

Hosea’s own eyes overflow onto this cheeks and he lets the tears fall, cradling Arthur against his body. “No, no, no, son, _no_ ,” he murmurs, voice trembling, “No, Arthur.” Arthur nods, but it’s weak, too tired to fight. “ _No_ , son.” Hosea says firmly. “I’ve got you. It’s...I’ve got you.”

It’s late when Arthur’s breath steadies. Hosea feels him slacken against his body, and although he wants to let the man sleep, his knees ache from the uneven ground, and Arthur is heavy. “Arthur,” Hosea says gently, shaking the man.

Arthur’s body stiffens. "M'sorry, sorry"," he slurs blurrily.

“Shh. S’okay, son,” Hosea soothes. “My body can’t stay like this all night, though. Let’s get you in bed, hm?”

He helps to haul the younger man to his feet, Arthur staggering slightly. Hosea tucks him in like he used to when they picked him up ten years ago, smoothing the blankets around his body. Arthur’s eyes are swollen, shot through with red, watching his movements wearily. Hosea meets his gaze. “You start feeling that... _awful_ again, you let me know, son. I mean it." Hosea runs a hand over Arthur's chest soothingly. “Get some rest, Arthur,” he murmurs, as the man’s eyes fall shut.

* * *

Hosea wakes with a start, heart pounding. It’s three or four in the morning, judging by the light outside, and it takes him a moment to figure out why he’s awake. He hears it then - a hoarse yell from Arthur’s tent.

 _Nightmare_ , Hosea grimaces, pushing himself up.

Across the tent, Dutch is sleep-wrinkled, pulling on his boots. They step out of the tent just as John is moving past them to get to Arthur’s. Dutch moves to catch the boy, but Hosea intercepts.

“Let him,” he says, voice sleep-rough. Dutch wrinkles his brow, but says nothing. “Remember when we first picked up John? Boy would wake up hollerin’ like the devil Himself was on his tail,” Hosea huffs with little humor, sobering as he says, “he stopped, though, when Arthur started sharing a bedroll with him. John doesn’t wake up like that anymore, but....maybe John can do what Arthur did.”

Dutch nods, running a hand through his hair. “S’pose you’re right,” he rumbles. “We’ll give John a shot.”

* * *

John had been awake after the first hoarse yell broke the quiet.

He doesn’t usually wake up screaming anymore, but he still doesn’t sleep easily. When the second yell came from Arthur’s tent, John was halfway before he’d thought it through. He used to wake up yelling too, and maybe he’s not as big or as tough as Arthur, can't wrap his skinny arms completely around Arthur like Arthur used to do for him, but he can _try_. 

Arthur’s awake when John ducks under the flap of the tent, and John has to work to keep from flinching. Arthur looks like a ghost, his swollen eyes a stark contrast to the rest of his face.

“What, John,” he mumbles, but there’s no heat behind it, and John ignores it in favor of climbing onto the cot.

“Had a nightmare,” he says, wriggling closer to the man and worming under his arm. It’s a lie, and he knows Arthur can tell, but he doesn’t call John on it. Instead, he just sighs. It shakes on the exhale, and John watches him swipe at his eyes.

“M’sorry. ‘Bout…’Liza,” he whispers cautiously.

Arthur sniffs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Me too, Johnny. Me too.” A long moment passes with Arthur fighting to get his ragged breathing under control. “Thanks,” Arthur whispers, almost inaudible. John burrows deeper into Arthur’s arms in response.

* * *

It’s noon, and Arthur hasn’t emerged from his tent.

Dutch doesn’t say anything about it, remembering the crushing weight that had lingered in his chest for days after Annabelle’s death. Without Hosea’s persistence, he’s sure he’d have met an early grave within the year, either by his own hand or another man's. It’s with these thoughts, and with a heavy heart, that Dutch pushes aside the flap of Arthur’s tent.

The air is still and dim. Arthur is curled up on his side, away from the entrance. Dutch places a gentle hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

"Son," he whispers.

The younger man rolls over slowly. He's still pale, exhausted despite having slept half of the day.

Dutch sits on the edge of the cot, meeting Arthur's red eyes. “I am...so _sorry_ , son,” he murmurs, and means it. No one as young as Arthur should carry so much pain. He smooths a hand down Arthur’s arm through the blanket. “You know how I was, after...after Annabelle. There’s no shame. Not in this. This...it's not your fault, Arthur.” Dutch strokes his arm again, sighing. “I’m gonna take your weapons, son. Just for a little while. I...well, I trust you, but a man's head can be a nasty place, sometimes."

Arthur swallows. His eyes trace Dutch’s thigh, where a thick patch of scars rests under the fabric of his pants. Dutch fights the urge to fidget. The scars are well on their way to healing, gone silvery-purple now instead of an angry red, but he doesn't like to look at them, doesn't like to be reminded of his weakness.

Arthur nods, after a long minute, reaching for Dutch’s hand and squeezing weakly. Dutch squeezes back, standing up from the cot.

He collects Arthur's guns and knives, his razor, and the knife he uses to sharpen his pencils.

Arthur’s eyes have closed again when Dutch glances down at him. He smooths back the hair, pressing a kiss to Arthur’s temple before turning away. 


	2. On The Mend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur visits the cottage, one last time.

Arthur gets back on his feet, in both the literal and figurative sense, after three days, to Hosea's surprise.

He's still quiet, prone to melancholy, but the color has returned to his face somewhat, even if his eyes remain dim.

* * *

Arthur walks over from where he'd been helping Miss Grimshaw as Hosea finishes putting the coffee on the fire.

Hosea looks up at his footsteps. “Hello, dear boy,” he greets warmly.

“‘Sea,” Arthur mumbles. He sits down heavily in the grass, frowning at the dirt.

“What’s on your mind, hm?” Hosea prompts.

Arthur kicks a pebble, fidgeting with his bandanna. "I...wanna visit, one last time Before we leave." The next part of his sentence is quieter, Hosea straining to hear him. "Don't wanna go alone."

Hosea feels his face soften. He sets down his newspaper, putting a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Of course, son. Now?"

Arthur shrugs. "I guess." Hosea nods. "Go tack up the horses. I'm gonna go let Dutch know we're leaving." 

It’s an hour’s ride. Arthur is quiet, only murmuring quiet praise to Cadell.

Hosea leaves him be, knowing better than to make small talk right now. The light casts dappled shadows on the trail, and Hosea takes in a deep breath, relishing the crisp air and the way it softens the painful sting of his own memories. 

He never went back to the house he'd shared with Bessie. Dutch had, at some point, to grab a few things he thought Hosea might want, eventually. _Not that you thanked him for it_ , Hosea thinks bitterly, remembering the way he had lashed out at the sight of the silver locket in Dutch's hand. He admires Arthur, for going back, even if he's worried he might revert into the pale, silent man he'd been immediately after. 

They pull up to the cottage, Arthur's posture stiffening as he pulls on the reins to stop Cadell.

"Do you want me to stay here?" Hosea asks gently.

Arthur nods, tugging his hat down and sliding out of the saddle.

Hosea watches him go around the side of the house. He swings off of Silver Dollar, murmuring words of praise to the gelding. Cadell lips at his satchel idly and Hosea chuckles before pulling out a peppermint for both of the horses. "Now I know why you're so sweet on Arthur, hm," he hums. Cadell snorts in response. 

An hour passes. Hosea doesn't want to rush Arthur by any means, but even with as much progress as Arthur has made since their deaths, Hosea can't ignore the nervousness in his gut, the way Arthur's words are ringing through his head.

_Wish it were me, in that ground._

He tries the front of the house first, figuring he'll do what Dutch did for him and Bessie. His stomach drops as he walks through the door.

There's blood in patches on the wood, streaky where the bodies were obviously dragged to the back. The plates on the table are still set, untouched, and there's a wooden stag Hosea recognizes as the one he had carved for Isaac next to one of them. It’s spotted with blood in places, but Hosea reckons he can stain the wood darker easily enough. His fingers close around the toy without thinking, and he pockets it.

Cautiously pushing open the back door, he spots Arthur, sitting in front of one of the wooden crosses in the dirt. Relief courses through him, strong as any river, at the sight of the boy, troubled and silent, but whole.

Hosea steps forward, feeling the newly-turned earth give way under his boot, placing a soft hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur sighs under his fingers, standing up and brushing off his knees. “How’d you do it, you and Dutch?” he asks softly, still staring at the crosses.

Hosea feels a bitter smile stretch across his face. “We didn’t. Not really. I spent the better part of that year at the bottom of a bottle, and Dutch, he... _well. Y_ ou remember. Reckon you’re handling it better than either one of us ever did.” Hosea says wryly. His smile drops. “It dulls, after a while. You learn how to live again, I s’pose.”

Arthur is quiet, his eyes distant under the brim of his hat. After a long few minutes, he nods, mostly to himself. “Reckon we should head back,” he mutters.

Hosea smiles sadly, squeezing Arthur’s shoulder where it rests under his hand.

As Arthur heads back toward the horses, Hosea spares the crosses a glance where they sit, still and silent in the earth. “So long,” he murmurs, the words painfully inadequate as they roll off his tongue.

This is not his grief to carry, and yet he feels it all the same. The birds are quiet overhead, and Hosea turns on his heel, his boots crushing the grass below. 

Arthur is silent as they pull back into camp, and although the color has leached from his face again, the tension in his shoulders has lessened somewhat. He swings off of Cadell, and as Hosea moves to loosen Silver Dollar’s tack, Arthur stops him.

“I’ll do it,” he says gruffly.

Hosea meets his gaze. Arthur’s eyes are clear, the pain in them evident but no longer suffocating.

“Okay,” Hosea agrees. He pauses, reaching for Arthur's hand. “I’m proud of you, Arthur."

* * *

A few weeks later, Arthur wakes up to an unfamiliar shape on his bedside table. Squinting in the faint pre-dawn light, he moves closer, warmth filling his chest as his fingers close around the wood. There in his hand, rests a tiny stag, polished smooth and dark with beeswax.

  
  
  


_I have never known the way the wind would blow if everything were fine,_

_I'm scared that when I die, I'll be alone with no one sitting by my side._

_No, I do not think that I could be alone when I die._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "No, I do not think that I could be alone when I die." - ha, get it, because....


End file.
